


The Vernet Ritual

by archea2



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: ACD Canon References, Christmas, F/M, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Riddles, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-10
Updated: 2015-01-10
Packaged: 2018-03-07 01:16:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3155408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/archea2/pseuds/archea2
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Christmas Eve at Cynewald Hall. While waiting for the boys to arrive, Lord Cynewald tells his favorite house guest about the family riddle.</p><p>A sequel to "Eyes Wide Open" (better read "Eyes" first, or this won't make much sense!).</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Vernet Ritual

**Author's Note:**

  * For [grassle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/grassle/gifts).



_Nobody’s perfect_ had been Lord Cynewald’s long-standing, tongue-in-cheek motto, one that he now felt tempted to assign to the weather man. The weather man had predicted snow yesterday and all the days before, only to eat his word today and settle for a little frosting episode around twelve. Which, to Rudy's disappointment, meant that he wouldn’t be greeting Maisie in a white and red landscape when her taxi came to a stop before the Hall. Still, there’d be snowdrops in her room – he’d been out to gather them himself, knowing better than to trust those chichi florists in Hatfield, always sticking watercress and whatnot in their posies and charging you double for delivery. And he’d checked twice that her room was on the heating rota for the next two days. Well, _rota_ was what the heater-and-fuel people called it. Lord Cynewald said _rot_. He saw no harm in letting the Hall hibernate on its own terms, when it had done so for five centuries and looked none the worse for it.

A little hesitantly, he adjusted his reading-glasses and took her last letter out of his pocket. He was certain – no, he was reasonably sure – well, the odds were that she wouldn’t be here before another half an hour, but there was no harm in making sure he’d got the day right. Oh, who was he fooling. He simply loved to read her prose.

… _so much forward to seeing you again_ , Maisie had written, _and the home of which you are the living heart. I’m so sorry I couldn’t be there for ~~Bill~~ ~~Mr Holmes~~ your boy’s wedding, but Thomas, my son, had just learnt of his new posting. Hong Kongtoo, such a nice place for, well, wintering I guess! And skyscrapering! It was a surprise to us all, he never having done missionary work of any sort, but Thomas said the Wind Blows Where It Will. To which dear Kiwi stood up, looking rather annoyed, and muttered…_

“…something about sneaky windbags in Number Ten,” Maisie repeated viva voce when they entered the Hall again. Despite a lingering cold she had insisted on seeing the grounds again, and seen them she had, on his arm and to his pride and joy. And the frosted grass looked beautiful, she had said, like Christmas's own green watermark.

“So I had to stay and do a spot of _bishopping_ as Greg said in his kind email, after Kiwi flew ahead to do some mission work of her own. Such helpers, my children! But I did find Tom mauve cotton socks and a mulberry sunhat, so he’s all kitted out and I can go where my own good wind blows me. And listen to your plans for the revels. And I love what you’ve done with your beard.”

She cocked her head on one side, her sweet wrinkled face nut-brown under her winter tan, with only the tip of her nose a little red and raw. They were sitting in Lord Cynewald’s sanctum, a small alcolve carved out in the Vernet family’s Private Parlour, itself a niche in the statelier Great Hall, so that its wooden screen and double velvet curtains felt like a matriochka shelter. He touched his beard self-consciously, beaming at her while she poured his tea.

“You do? I’m so glad. Shall I let you on about a little secret?”

“I love secrets, Rudolf!”

“I grow my own sculpting wax. Seven hives, except I don’t keep them here because guests are ever so _fussy_ about bees, especially with children around. So they’re boarded at one of the farmers’ nearby – we have a gentlemen’s agreement that he can keep the honey if I get the wax. The trick is to mix it with lemon peel and a little coconut oil. Don’t tell anyone I told you.”

“Rudolf’s secret! Well, one of them, at least.”

The self-consciousness bloomed into a flush as he tugged on the the silky-white rings. He hadn’t told Maisie yet; was still of two minds about it, despite her own aura of zany innocence which made him so certain that she wouldn’t judge or laugh. Just, how did you tell your lady friend that you, ah, _fundamentally_ worshipped all things ladylike? There had to be a tact-to-truth ratio here – just as with the lemon and coconut.

“…Rudolf? My dear, I didn’t mean to pry.” Maisie was lowering her cup on her lap, still half-filled.

“No, no,” he hastened to reassure her. “It’s just – there are so many secrets to this house, do you know, that I’m not sure where to start.”

“Of course…” But she still looked concerned. Dear god, he must be turning a dodgier blue by the minute.

“In fact, you might hear one of them tonight. It’s part and parcel of our Christmas dinner – I have to recite  it at dessert, you see, as a starter for the games. We love to play in this family.”

“Oh, but I love games too! Do tell me.”

Lord Cynewald heaved a relieved breath. “It’s nothing, really. Just a funny little quatrain that was handed down to me by my forefathers. It dates back all the way to young Edward Vernet, founder of the House of Vernet and this castle, who _almost_ became Elizabeth’s favorite before young Essex showed a brisker, shapelier leg at la Volta. But the jaded old Queen did smile on Edward’s auburn curls for a year or two, showering him with offices and pensions until her counsellors began to frown and Essex cut  in to lead her around the dance floor.”

“Oh, dear. What did Edward do?”

“The near-honourable thing. He took a great oath that he would never marry but ‘live very retired’ in a house he would build on the northern banks of the Thames, worthy of a queen’s retreat if she chose ‘but to turn with the tide and crown it with her presence’. Courtierspeak, but it only fed the rumour that she had given him much more than pensions and offices.”

“What do you mean, Rudolf?”

“A secret wedding,” Lord Cynewald said around a mouthful of bread and honey. “The evidence of which Edward supposedly hid here, in the house, in a place never revealed to his wife (he did marry in the end) and heirs, unless that little quartain is a clue. It was left as a codicil in his will, along with three memorial rings. One for each of his sons, on the proviso that they should learn the poem by rote and ‘have a care that they recite it every year, for in devises & ditties is the bloom of truth, not in grave men’s hoary words’.”

“Oh, my! And you have it here?”

“Well, not the original will. Mycroft will get it, I suppose, with the rest of the house. Not that he will pay it any attention – he never did when I first told the boys about it. But then, he was twenty-one and well on his grown-up way. Sherlie was thirteen and all for breaking into the British Museum at midnight with his chemistry set to analyse the ink.” Lord Cynewald chuckled at the memory. “I hope they’ll let me give the hives to Sherlock. In his own way, he’s been the family bee.”

“But did he crack the rhyme?”

“None of us did. It’s doggerel, really – Edward was seventy-six when he wrote it, probably a bit soft in the head. Or merely recreating his past amours. It was later set to music by Purcell as a lark for Edward’s grandson. They used to meet at Baldwin’s Gardens to sing glees and catches, and I’m afraid the Vernet quatrain became something of a Time’s Up signal. Let me see…”

And Lord Cynewald began to sing. His voice was low and sweet, an excellent thing to the ear as he stood up, beat the time with his scone, and took Maisie through the sweet-tangy strains.

_Youth, that flieth in May chyrping an ode,_

_Come July, showeth a sour and silent hue ;_

_Yet I still wear the Lover’s livery of blood,_

_Quartered with mourning, for_ Dye! _is my cue._

The melody was very charming, though it was obvious that Purcell had made a complete stew of Edward’s splenatic verse, slapping on a series of trills for the youth’s chirps and an impossibly high note on _Dye!_ for which Lord Cynewald provided a plucky falsetto. Maisie laughed and clapped.

“It’s more impressive when sung in canon,” her beau said modestly. “I’ll try and get Sherlie to revive the old custom. He loved it as a child, though he tended to muff the lines a bit – turned ‘livery of blood’ into ‘Blood and liver!’ for one thing. His favorite oath, in his favorite game.”

“Well, he couldn’t be expected to know about Marie de France at his age,” Maisie said, smiling.

Lord Cynewald, who had risen to bank the fire again, paused to look at her. “My dear, I’m sixty-two and I feel just as boyish right now. Will you enlighten me?”

“The ‘livery of blood’, Rudolf. It’s in a little medieval poem. Not Marie’s best effort and little known today, but I dare say it was still pretty popular in Edward’s time. My memory isn’t as good as yours or I’d quote it chapter and verse, but the gist of it is that young men, when in love, have a choice of five colours to dress in. Green for youth; white for chastity; blue to show off their fidelity; black as a token of despair, or vermillion to proclaim their hot blood. _L’autre s’en vest vermeil com sanc_.”

“Oh…” Lord Cynewald tugged at his beard in candid wonder. “Do you know, I never thought of that. But then of course, with your Gift…”

“Dear Rudolf, there’s nothing magic or mystical here. Just a spot of research. I…I have to know about this sort of thing, because, you see, what _I_ see – the auras or soul-shades, so rich, so complex – they come with a history. Not just the individual soul’s doings, but a cultural heritage, because people have woven meanings into colours ever since they could tell blue from red. Layer upon layer of meaning, which we carry within us unawares, and which keep branching out. To Marie de France, blue was a  badge of fidelity. To a Flemish painter of the same century it would have signified adultery, while an English lord would have used it to clothe his servants. It’s complicated!”

“Oh,” Lord Cynewald said respectfully. And then, after a while, “So the third line is old Edward advertising himself as a vermillion man. At seventy-six, no less. Of course, the Vernet men have always been terrible show-offs, in all shapes and sizes.” He drew a resolute breath. “I myself, in my younger days…”

“Vermillion _and_ black. Remember the last line, Rudolf. Well, ebony, technically speaking. Or sable.”

“Vermillion and ebony. Oh!”

“What, dear?”

“It’s just – Maisie, in that last line, _dye_ is written with an y. I’ve always thought it was some sort of Renaissance alternative spelling, because _chirp_ also contains an y in the first line. But what if it wasn’t? What if it was a clue that colours are the code, here?”

“Oh!” Maisie chimed in turn, her eyes shining with excitement. “Then…what was the second line about, remind me? Something about young lovers yielding to jealousy before long?”

“The green-eyed monster. Do you think… ?”

“No, no.” Maisie frowned. “It has to be more specific than that.”

“ _Come July, showeth a sour and silent hue_. Well, it could be acid green.”

Maisie shook her head. “Too modern for Edward. No, he would be thinking of something more bilious – yellow or orange.”

“Orange, I think, though it would be called orange-tawney at the time. Let me brush up my Shakespeare... odds bodskins! _The Count is civil as an orange, and something of that jealous complexion_. Maisie, I think you’ve nailed it!”

“Well, it could still be yellow.” But she was glowing with excitement, her sneezes forgotten, warmed by the chase. He would keep it up for her sake, he thought, bending once more to the piece of paper where he'd written down the lines for her.

“Not if _silent_ is another clue. William of Orange, do you know, also known as William the Silent – definitely when he was murdered in 1584, the very year Edward was forced to retire. Which leaves us with May and the chyrping youths. Green?”

“Green, obviously. So, Green, Orange, Vermillion and Ebony. A very…strong mix. I’ve only seen it once myself, and that was dear Kiwi on her wedding-day, towing Arthur down the aisle by his cassock sleeve. Could it describe the hide-out, do you think?”

But the owner of Cynewald Hall shook his own hoary head. “Not as far as walls or ceilings are concerned. We do have a painted and coffered ceiling in the lunch-room, with a floral theme – very useful to me, only I tend to get a crick in the head, copying them – but they’re mostly pastel. What about an acrostiche? GOVE? Oh, no, that’s ridiculous.”

“Rudolf, wait!” Maisie was angling her neck towards the paper, trying to read the curves and curlicues that had been all the rage in Eton in the psychedelic ’60s. “I think we’ve skipped a clue. Remember how there’s one in every line? We need to go back to the first line and find it.”

“The crickets,” Lord Cynewald said wildly. “Only they’re still green. Or _flyeth_? Another pun? Perhaps we should wait for Greg – they shouldn’t be long now, not if they left London at five.”

“Hush, Rudolf. No, it has to be green – green May, green youth, green crickets. Only, perhaps it wasn’t called green at the time. Come on, dear – I’m the shade-y lady, but you’re the Renaissance boffin!”

In the end, it required a trip to the Hamlet Room, demoted to a mere Library in the winter days, to find the answer. Lord Cynewald had suggested that he take it alone: the library was at the other end of the manor, the unheated part, though it came with a modern iron stove (“My sister insisted. _She_ ’s the fusspot – used to spend her winters there, obsessing about the dynamics of log-burning”). But Maisie would not be left out of the fun. She now sat close to the stove, wrapped in a woolly plaid, her face lifted up to the portrait of a long-faced, curlyheaded young man posing with one hand on his hip and...

“Edward Vernet,” Lord Cynewald confirmed from the top step of a shelf ladder, adding half for himself, “And Gregorius, his watchful greyhound. Some things never change. Oh, look! Here’s what I was looking for – a list of My Lord’s Wardrobe by his head stewart or something. _One Incarnate Gown and one Coventry Blue, Four Doublets in Gentleman’s Grey, Two with Wings of Drake Green_ …”

“Drake Green!” Maisie turned her head abruptly. “Rudolf, why was it called drake ?”

“Well, possibly because of the drake fly, or mayfly. Very useful for fishing, don’t you know, and – _oh_.”

“Drake, Orange, Vermillion, Ebony. DOVE. And now I can add a new name to my repertoire, thanks to you. Oh, Rudolf.” And Maisie, shaking herself free from the plaid, danced a few steps across the floor on which the stove-window was projecting its shadow theatre of reds and oranges. “I don’t care if we’ve got it all wrong – it’s been such fun that I could just kiss you!”

But just as Lord Cynewald was hastening down from his ladder, a faint rumble of car engines could be heard. Together, they turned to the nearest window. A black Bentley Arnage was pelting down the lane followed by a humbler sedan, the two visibly intent on racing each other to the front door.

“The boys have come!” Lord Cynewald exclaimed, the host’s mantle back on his shoulders as he hurried to the door with Maisie.

He switched off the lights, sending the Vernet ritual back to its century-old darkness.

 

* * *

 

The Christmas dinner, lovingly prepared by Lord Cynewald’s new cook and left ready-to-warm, went without a hitch. It soon transpired that Sherlock’s pre-nuptial agreement included three meals a day (“and counting”: Greg), and that he could be amenable to roast goose as long as he picked and nicked it from his husband’s plate. Another Christmas ritual was the Swag-Your-Waistcoat competition between Mycroft and his uncle. This year, a close call between Mycroft’s bespoke wine-and-gold paisley design and Lord Cynewald’s home-stitched silver amaryllis.

“There’s pudding,” the latter proclaimed in the end, standing up from the head of the table. “I mean, pudding’s pudding. From Marks & Spencer,” came next with an anxious glance in Greg’s direction.

“So bring us some figgy pudding! ’s all right, Uncle R. I’m good with rum and raisins, this time. And carols, if anyone’s in the mood. I know Sherlock packed his violin while I… packed everything else, yeah.”

“The Vernet rhyme!” Maisie chirped in while Sherlock rose with half-a-glare at his lawful husband. “Only, it comes with a story this year.”

“Oh dear.” Mycroft heaved a well-fed sigh. “And there I thought we were done with the family nuptials.”

“Song first, story next,” Lord Cynewald told everyone firmly as Sherlock brought the violin under his chin and, with a pointed look at his brother, warmed up his strings with _The Goose is Getting Fat_. “Everyone unlock their silent throats, please.”

And so they did. The host had a first go, beaming on them all from behind his beard. Then Maisie joined with her bright soprano while Sherlock improvised a deft counterpoint and Greg grunted along, cheerfully hum-humming his part of the canon. Everyone hit a different high note on _Dye_ , and everyone had to stop after the fifth round to catch a breath and spill a giggle. Then the pudding was set ablaze and it was time to carve it up – and, for the amateur sleuths, to dissect the poem all over again.

“Very clever,” was all that Mycroft said. But they could see that he had left his plate half filled and was sitting much straighter on his chair.

Sherlock, being Sherlock, had already put his thumb on the crux of the matter.

“But there’s no dove!”

“Hush, you. Have some more rum.”

But Sherlock was not to be quieted with another tot.

“Greg, I know this house inside out. I could draw every tile and pannel of it in memory – I did, actually, once upon an…unhappier time. There’s not _one_ inch of Cynewald Hall that I haven’t investigated, and one thing I know for certain is that you won’t find a dove in its decoration. Not even the tip of a wing. Uncle, am I right?”

“You’re always right, Sherlie.” Lord Cynewald turned to his next-seat neighbour with an apologetic sigh. “I’m sorry, my dear. It seems that we did get it wrong, after all.”

“Hey, what about that great big stuffed osprey? _I_ remember it well enough. P’raps Eddy hid something in it – a jewel or whatever, and then left a bird’s name to…”

“Really, Inspector.” Mycroft’s waspish tones cut across the table. “I think my ancestor would have known the difference between the emblem of the Holy Ghost and an osprey. Which, incidentally, happens to be a peacock.”

“Then DOVE has to be another clue. Has to!” Sherlock slammed the palm of his hand on the table, startling his slice of pudding. “One with a different key. The Elizabethans loved all sorts of wordplay – they must have… wait! Edward specifically asked for his rhyme to be spoken aloud. Recited. Sung, even. What if this was the key? Say the word aloud and hear it bloom into a brand new meaning. Mycroft, you’re our designated linguist.” Sherlock turned to his brother. “What say you?”

“Well,” Mycroft said placidly. “Well, there’s _douve_ of course – the French word for moat. Vernet was of old Anglo-Norman stock, after all, and must have had his sons tutored in the language. And yet. While I’m reluctant to foment conflict on a night such as this –”

“Yes, thank you for your Putin.” Sherlock wheeled upon his chair, a boyish glint in his eyes as he contemplated the prospect of more and delightful exploration in his old haunts. “Uncle Rudy, can I go and dig in the – wait. There’s no longer a moat, is there?”

“My dear boy…I’m afraid there’s _never_ been a moat.” Lord Cynewald looked positively contrite. “Edward did think of putting one in, but took one look at his commoners and decided it would be a waste of money.”

“Oh.” And a deflated Sherlock sank back into his seat.

“Crosswords!” came from a mouth filled with raisins, rum and Lord Cynewald’s best claret. When everyone looked at Greg, he swallowed robustly and pushed his point home. “I like’em. Fill’em first thing on Sunday morning, while Sherlock yells ‘Wrong!’ from the bathroom.”

“Greg…”

“What I mean is, sometimes I get one letter wrong and the whole grid goes tits-up. So perhaps you did, too, and it’s not DOVE but DIVE. Or LOVE.”

“That wouldn’t make much sense,” Lord Cynewald objected.

“Makes plenty for me,” Greg muttered and Sherlock, to everyone’s wonder, didn’t sneer. Did, in fact, take his husband’s hand and entwine their fingers into a lovers' knot, not caring if anyone saw him do so.

Perhaps there was a Christmas truce in the making, along with the coffee which Maisie now brought in a steaming pot from the kitchen. For when Mycroft spoke up again, it was more softly than the content warranted.

“Do you mind if I have a go at this, Sherlock?”

Sherlock nodded his consent.

His brother paused a little as he took in the candlelit sight – the large table and the people seated round it in perceptible twosomes; aging, all of them, yet somehow invulnerable in the warm strong glow that enveloped them from the fireplace. Or so it seemed to Lord Cynewald as he inhaled the rich smell of cake, exorcising the July ghost in its wake.

“I shall give you a toast, then. Or two. Mrs Fisher –” Mycroft bowed to the woman across him, holding her amused gaze in his. “We’re not an easy clan to mingle with, as Lestrade might tell you. And we certainly need a dove-bearer among us now and then. Thank you for being one.” He turned to the white-haired man on her left. “Uncle Rudy, you are a  true-blooded Vernet and Edward’s direct heir. If anyone has the last word on this riddle, it should be you. So tell me. What is there in this room that has always been here, an inspiration to you ever since you settled here, in your fathers’ demesne?”

Lord Cynewald did not hesitate. He set down his coffee cup and raised his arm slowly, pointing it up.

“The flowers?” Sherlock’s voice was more cautious.

“The flowers!” Greg was craning his neck and squinting to see the ceiling better. “Christ, that’s sweet. Each in its little case, with its name all spelled out.  Like on those pillows you put in the rooms.”

“Well, I’m not too bad at my needlework,” their host said modestly.” Or my Shakespeare. But then, I was enthralled by that ceiling as a boy – one hundred and twenty casings, would you believe it, each with its own species. And such pretty names! All forgotten now, I’m afraid. Heartsease and Trinity herb and love-lies-in-idleness, there on the left. And here, just above us, the contrary flowers: fennel and rue and columbine, speaking for infidelity and forgetfulness…”

“Columbine!” Maisie’s hand had flown to her mouth. “Oh, my! That would be…”

“From the Latin _columba_ , dove, yes. I’m afraid Edward was a bad loser, even though he used the royal moneys to fund this house. Sherlock, surely this can wait until tomorrow? When there’s more light and Uncle will fetch a ladder?”

But Sherlock, already up and pacing his new battlefield among a trail of nuts, almonds, dates and crumbles, turned a deaf ear.

“Greg!” A loud snap of fingers beckoned Lestrade to the center of the table, where Lord Cynewald waved him on indulgently. The table was thick oak and could bear the weight of several men – or, in this case, one man giving the other a leg-up on his sturdy shoulders.

“Gee up, sunshine! You’re no longer a lightweight, y’know. Gimme?”

“The wood is hollow,” wafted down in Sherlock’s excited voice. “I think – yes! The pannel can slide off, and there’s a niche behind it. Hell, it’s stuck – the wood has got swollen with age, I think. Who has the carving knife?”

“Sherlie! You are not to carve off my ceiling.” Lord Cynewald was struggling up in his turn, one knee on the tabletop. The table, unaccustomed to such heavy petting, was going a bit wobbly. “Do you have any idea how much a carpenter costs these days? And I’d have to get him vouched by the National Trust, too.”

“It’s all right, sir – it’s sliding open now. Hurry up, love, I can feel my knees sliding too!”

“Catch!” And, with a gleeful ring in his voice, and a loud clatter of china and silver, Sherlock leapt down from his husband’s shoulders. Greg chose to catch him instead.

“What is it? What _is_ it?” Even Mycroft joined the chorus, as Lord Cynewald picked up the small bundle that had fallen plump into the late pudding’s remains, scattering a few raisins left and right. They watched as he unfolded a piece of cloth stiffened with age and dust.

“It’s a ring!” Maisie exclaimed first. “Oh – and it’s…a blue stone?”

“A carbuncle, they’d have called it at the time.” Mycroft, who had dipped the ring carefully into his glass of water, dabbed at it with his pocket handkerchief. “Quite a unique sapphire in its depth and size. Blue for fidelity, obviously.”

“An _engagement_ ring?”

“Perhaps even more, if given by a royal who had worn it first. Had, indeed, worn it as a testimony of her previous marriage... to England.” Lord Cynewald’s voice was unusually quiet.

“Sherlock.” Lestrade’s voice wasn’t. “If this is anything like a national treasure, I need to know right now. Please.”

“I can’t say, Greg.” Sherlock, his feet once again on solid ground, wrapped his arm round his husband’s shoulders and brought their heads closer over the find. “If my uncle thinks what I think he thinks, then we’re looking at Elizabeth’s lost Coronation ring, the jewel she claimed never to have taken off for one moment because it made her England’s bride. But would she have gone this far? Jeopardised her safeguard, the very token of her sovereignty, over a pretty boy?”

“Over a very charismatic man,” Maisie Fisher said. “I’ve seen his portrait, Sherlock. She would have watched him dance and warmed herself at his cleverness, his way with words. Perhaps they did make each other happy during those few years.”

“Unless she had a copy made for him. _Or he_ had one made, and later on engineered the whole legend to keep his name in dubious glory. Or this is a completely different ring. We’ll probably never know. Mycroft…”

But Mycroft was shaking his head. “This is still Christmas Eve, Sherlock. I’m not calling an old and dear friend on the first stroke of midnight to tell her that her namesake made a fool of herself – possibly. Uncle Rudolf, the ring was found under your roof. Quite literally so. I think it’s only fair that you should keep it.”

“Thank you, Mycroft. But I think it fair to tell you all that it…may not remain forever in my keeping.” Lord Cynewald spoke as the first stroke of midnight rose, a ring of silver from the grandfather clock in the long hal. The twelfth stroke found him still looking into Maisie’s clear, unretreating face. In his back, Sherlock’s violin bloomed into a few notes: the ancient song that reached out to all the Christmases of the past, sealing them to the year and its newborn resolutions.

“Christ. Is it Christmas yet?” Greg asked, having listened to the tune and praised the fiddler. He gave the whole room a benevolent shrug, that quickly turned into a benevolent yawn. “It's sleepy-bye for me!”

The round of goodbyes, good nights and good wishes proceeded accordingly as they covered the fire and left the room to itself, a still life of reds, golds and crumbs. Mycroft announced that he had to motor back to London and vanished into the night, carrying another State secret in the folds of his umbrella. Greg could be seen leaning his head on Sherlock’s shoulder as they made their way to bed, duvet, the extra blanket in Greg’s suitcase and a certain silken coverlet. And Lord Cynewald walked Maisie to her door a moment before the late hours tipped their good night into a good morrow.

“Don’t forget to hang your stocking,” she told him as she raised herself on her toes to kiss his cheek. “Christmas has been incredible tonight, but you never know – it could still surprise you.”

“Oh, I will. I will.” Lord Cynewald shuffled his feet a little, searching for his words. “About that…Maisie, would you walk with me tomorrow? There’s much I need to tell you.”

“You can tell me anything, Rudolf. You know that, don’t you? Oh, look at you – you’re all aglow. And...yes! I do believe there’s a touch of vermillion about you.”

Lord Cynewald, glowing like a beacon, bowed deeply and turned to go. But before he had taken that first step to bed, he pivoted on his heel and faced her again.

“Do you know, Maisie, you’ve never told me what _your_ aura’s like.”

“Oh…” Maisie blushed a little in the half-dim, half-dawn penumbra. “You’re the first person in a long, long time who has raised the subject. Well, Rudolf, it’s not much – and I can only give you a second-hand answer because this is the one colour I cannot see. But according to my late husband, it’s a very soft grey bordering on pink, or light brown. I’m not sure there is a word for it.”

Oh, but there is, Lord Cynewald thought to himself as he padded along the corridor to join his own room further down the wing. There was, and it had been under his very eyes only some hours before, when he had inspected that Wardrobe listing. Warm greyish-brown, lightening into pink – like the winter day soon to be kindled at his windows. _Dove_. And he said it under his happy breath once more, just for himself and Christmas. Beautiful, beautiful dove.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Grassle, who wanted to read more Cynewald shenanigans. All my thanks to Pocketbookangel for her precious help. Everything waistcoat-wise should be credited to her.
> 
> (Also a homage to the witty, irreverent, cheerful old men who were part of my childhood and adolescence.)


End file.
